The Darkness I invited In
by Lady The Warrior
Summary: [Complete] Madness as you know... is like gravity. All it takes is a little, PUSH!(A look into the origin of the Joker, in little fragments of delusion and reality)
1. Chapter 1

**The Only sensible way to live in this world, i** **s without rules**

Darkness's never been more appealing. It's a strange _substance_ , like ice. It has three states of solid, liquid and gas but with a _twist_. In solid form it's almost completely black aside from a _very_ tiny shade of red at its center, like a candle in the dark. When a non-user touches it, it'll get winded, If hit by a _knife_ , it will penetrate and quickly infect.

As a liquid, it is _thick_ ; sticky and has pungent smell of ink; it can act like quicksand or just plain coat and suh-ffocate people.

But as a gas, it's quite strange. It's able to pass through solid material with _eeease_ , melt and eat away like _acid._

 _Acid._

This-this darkness is a mystical material, you see. It's only able to change states by the user. There's no rules for it.

It is… **free.**

* * *

 _A/N: I shouldn't have done this. My followers must have despised me by now since the only alarm they get is from new stories but not those that they actually took an interest in. Hell they might've unfollowed and unfavorited me by now. That is deeply depressing even more than my currently state... really._

 _But with all the fuss about Suicide Squad and the new Joker, I just couldn't sit down and do nothing! also it was a trigger for me to go back and praise the marvelous work that Heath Ledger did with his ver of joker in The Dark Knight 2008. And yeah I know it might be a little late but at least my eyes are open wide now. That's why I went back to the old Heath Ledger's joker, cause that is the only joker that can never really be replaced._

 _And with a little research here and there, I decided to do the one thing I doubt many have done before. I decided to write a little fanfiction with Nolan vers. joker and his origin. I just enjoy the joker so let me have my portion of fun in this._

 _I actually hope people read, follow and favorite this little piece contains of only 5 short chapters (ALREADY WRITTEN) telling the possible origin of the joker we have seen and loved in The Dark Knight._

 _So hope you enjoy,_

 _-Bella_


	2. Chapter 2

**You wanna know how I got these scars? My father, was a drinker...**

He was an alcoholic. Years of alcohol abuse had left his cheeks rosy and his mind dull-witted. He wouldn't stop. He knew drying out would be a painful process but he enjoyed it like this. He didn't want to ever stop. He loved seeing the world upside down. Out of order and only-

Simple.

Plain and simple.

His breakfast was whiskey with run chaser. He slurred his words by lunchtime and would pass out by the afternoon, consumed little food and exhibited his legendary temper to everyone to see. Oh and was he a bastard and a complete asshole. Somehow he took pleasure in detesting everyone. Especially those who showed him kindness-

Like his wife.

She called him a drunkard and he called her a bitch. Then all hell would break loose and he hit her-

Hard. So hard that one time her ribs broke in three places, she couldn't even breathe. often he'd become more creative, breaking different places. Leaving marks everywhere. He would punch her and shove the table, destroying the glass vases. It would shatter everywhere as he pulled her to the floor-

Her back would stick on the glass pieces then he beat her in a violent way and she couldn't do anything but burst in tears not even ask him to stop now, knowing that this would make him more repulsive-

He beat her, laughing as _he_ watched. Those wounds and broken bones would cure at some point, though.

She would still survive. She was a hopeful person. Mostly seeing the bright side, a decent Christian. And it was the way it was around decent people. They endured in hope of a better day, coming.

One night _he_ was awakened by a sudden thump in the kitchen. The inebriated man, he called father, had returned. Drunker than ever, going through the same routine. Drinking, swearing and beating her.

But as she let out a piercing scream, _he_ took a peek outside. He was standing opposite the weeping woman, a kitchen in his left hand. His other hand was firmly clasped under his chin, a gleeful grin stretched across his face. His skin paler thank usual. He wouldn't say a thing. He wasn't bother by the screams that came from the woman.

That man seemed amused by her pain. His clouded eyes stared down at the twitching body before him as if he were inspecting a freshly plucked turkey, all ready to go into the oven.

He waited. he waited for the screams to subside and then gave a single kick to her stomach but this time she didn't scream. She didn't even flinch.A moment passed as the man sat on the ground and started crying.

 _He_ only stood there and watched all the hope burning down to the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**Whatever doesn't kill you, s** **imply makes you s** **tranger**

The pillar of fiery smoke and dust, still boiling up from where the bombs had gone off far underground, was being violently agitated at the bottom. A series of new flashes broke out, lifting and spreading the incandescent radioactive gasses, and then a great gush of flame rose. A column of pure hydrogen must have rushed up into the vacuum created by the explosion; the next blast of flame, in lateral sheet, came at nearly ten thousand feet above the ground, and great rags of fire, changing red to violet and back through the spectrum of crimson, went soaring away to dissipate the upper atmosphere. Then geysers of hot ash and molten rock spouted upward; some of the white-hot debris landed almost at the acid river, half-way to the armor tender.

The men… those pawns in a game of schemers were for the most part dead and those who were not soon would be. He took a quick look over his cover and let out a shaky breath. How many of his comrades had fallen? How many ran just to be locked away in cells, charged with desertion and how many have lived, waiting for medals to be pinned on their chests by their generals, nodding their heads in grim approval.

He continued to stare into the distance, to the ripped bodies and blown brains scattering across the field, his mind hazy as he tried to make some sense of it. Why was _He_ alive? Living was indeed to suffer but was he the one to find a meaning in this suffering. He thought to himself as a cold barrel rested on his head and he was dragged to his feet.

Sometimes he dreamed of her. Sometimes though, it came as nightmare—a guy grabbing her and stabbing her to death before he could do anything. Sometimes he dreamed he visited her in the hospital where she worked, only she did her blond hair in eighties hairstyle while in those white scrubs; he still didn't know what that dream was about. Sometimes, rarer still, he'd even dreamed that he'd met her in high school, standing in a middle of a crowded hallway, looking back at him without saying a word.

He didn't know how many days had passed since he was captured by enemies. The prison cell he was held in was more like a coffin or at least it felt like one, since he was blind folded and tied to a chair, deprived of everything but occasional sips of water. He realized that it wasn't even a cell but a design of pure hatred. The only sound other than inmates banging rhythmically on the walls was the audio they piped in from the torture rooms, of which there were many. The screams only would stop for half an hour- even lesser- it was a gruesome choir of pain.

They tortured him methodically, trying to extract information. He simply didn't say anything. He was waiting. Didn't know what? Maybe a flicker of hope? That even he doubted. After a while he didn't even bother to scream.

Didn't take him long to see, how alone he truly was, not that he hadn't experienced it before but this time he felt it with every punch he took, every little piece of skin they pilled and every stabbing of the knife.

Days went by and screams turned to long crucial silence. But even that didn't change their style. Every single day he went through a same routine, he didn't even feel the pain. That's when he started laughing.

He was cracking—

They hoped. That he had truly lost his mind. But that wasn't the truth behind the laughs; day by day his eyes widened even more, he started to see things more clearly and he-was- just-too fucking bored with their uncreative, repetitive method of torture. He knew he wasn't going to make out alive out of this cell, might as well try enjoy it, then.

So they started with a slim, five inch long knife through a muscle in his right upper arm muscle, hitting a nerve and causing all his muscles to cringe and they left it there for a day. The burning pain stopped him from laughing. But only for a while until it started again and they shoved a shotgun to his mouth and pulled the trigger.

It caught him off-guard. Shocked, even.

When it only clicked, once again he cracked into a long, painful laughter.

The interrogator then banged him on the head with it and cracked his skull. He blacked out.

The next hour, day, week or even month, he opened his eyes to his surroundings, squinting at a bright light hanging from the ceiling above his head. His eyes then fell on the man in enemy's uniform, standing before him.

His hands were clasped around a hunt knife. _His knife_ , he quickly recognized. His brow creased at that. The grim man was one of those so-called generals, looking disdainfully at him as he walked closer. Speaking in his language, spitting words in anger as he held the knife before his eyes.

He was done for. He thought. This time, not laughing. Not even giving a small smile. He simply stared at the man. As he grinned widely.

"They say… you enjoy laughing." He spoke in accent, getting closer, tightening the fingers of his left hand around the back of his neck and putting the blade in the corner of his mouth.

He felt his heart pounding against his chest but he didn't stop staring into the man's eyes. Strange enough, he didn't feel anger or hatred towards him. In fact he didn't feel anything. It was only his body naturally reacting to the situation.

Then without a warning his wrist flicker and pulled up his cheek, cutting it in two. Blood squirted on his face; he didn't scream only grunts of pain could be heard as the blade tore through the soft delicate layers of his flesh.

Pain pumped through his skull as blood filled his mouth. After a while he didn't grimace. He didn't even flinch, only stared into the man's dark eyes. He gazed at his own image in those eyes as the man twisted the blade in circular motion and started with the other cheek.

On those last seconds, he felt as if he was slowly losing all tides with the world, surrounding him. But oh... wasn't it only the beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

**So I had a wife and she was bea-utiful…**

Home seemed to be far away, even when he thought he'd come back. Somehow he'd survived, somehow… not really. He was home now. Returning to the same streets, same Narrows—same people. Yet everything seemed to have moved on in his absence; it was all too obvious that the gaping hole he left on departure to the army had long since healed and scarred up. And no—

He wasn't part of the natural flow of these people any more, he wasn't part of anything anymore. He didn't care though. The only thing he cared about, the only thing that still kept him going, kept him feel like he still had something in this world to hold on to was... _her._

She was beautiful. He remembered the way she gazed up into his eyes, smiling as though she were entirely his, wanting to be with him her whole life. He closed his eyes and saw her face, those golden brown eyes, and the tiny dimple at the side of her sensual lips when she smiled at him. He imagined kissing those lips, tasting the sweetness of her tongue as he… fuck!

He wanted her back, so badly. _He wanted her. He wanted her. He wanted_. And she'd better not have forgotten about him. Standing in the darkness, in front of a small house, he remembered everything about the place; the blue hydrangeas planted in the front yard, the soft tinkling of the wind. The blue paint had faded since he'd last seen it but he still recognized it. It looked like the color of the sky before a bad storm.

So he walked up to the door, dragging his luggage behind him. He raised his hand to knock but the door opened and there she was. Her warm, loving face was revealed as she gaped at him in silence. He didn't say a thing, only stared back long enough to realize she looked-

not happy,

but incredibly nervous.

 _Is it the scars? Did they scare her?_

And in a split second, her eyes filled with little tears and she raised her hand to touch his face, before a manly voice echoed in the house.

"Hey baby I was wondering about… "

He stopped at the sight of him. Half naked, with a towel around his wrist, the man gawked. He took a cold look at him and then returned his attention to the woman. She was in her nightgown, looked pale, horrified and obviously trembling.

 _Is it the scars?_ He asked himself again. As she finally broke into tears and pushed a rejected hand to his chest.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. "She cried.

How he _hated_ to see her cry. He looked over her shoulder at the man again. He was a tall with brawny arms and wide chest, looked vaguely familiar. Maybe an army man, one of his comrades that got the honorable medal and was rewarded to go back. But that didn't matter, what mattered was his face. That perfect face structure he had with no scars on it. Nothing. There were no hideous war marks on his skin. _Perfect._

And oh boy didn't he feel like destroying something perfect at the moment. It struck him that she had forgotten about him, that she had shared her bed with someone else but strangely enough he wasn't angry. No, in fact he didn't feel anything, not remorse, not pain, no anger ... but excitement. He was just felt like having an itch and it seemed as if the beautiful lovely couple inside could help him scratch it.

Looking deviously at the woman, he took a step inside. His scars poked out hideously as he gave them a big grin.

"Why so… serious?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Some men just want to watch the world burn.**

Those dark eyes, they reflected fire. Flames that had no appreciation of what had been given to them and no concern for what would be left after. They reflected him as he stared back at them, standing outside the small house, watching them dance and leap in the air, suffocating the screams of the people inside and reaching hungrily for anything they could consume to fuel their wrath.

And in that very moment, he realized how much he loved the fire. The way the flames sedate him, he also felt butterflies in his stomach. Slowly giving in to the urge to smile, to grin and break into laughter as he watched _his_ world…burn.

It seemed like a bonfire to him. All his celluloid memories, souvenirs of a life wasted from long ago. For exactly how many years? He was too far excited to count. This was a celebration of him losing in oblivion. Of him… finding his freedom.

He was a fool then, looking at the world upside down. He couldn't make any sense out of it. All wrong was right and right was wrong whilst there were no right and wrong. There were no rules.

 _Only chaos._

"When the chips are down, these…ah…civilized people, they eat each other."

Seeing a man, tearing apart the heart of his lovely wife with a kitchen knife, laughing maniacally and crying at the same. Seeing a man, moving the knife in front of his little son, threatening to mutilate him. Watching the horror in his eyes and laughing in excitement.

He watched the visions becoming ashes and melting away like waxes. The smoke of the past's memories was being carried by the wind.

Watching a truck full of soldiers suddenly explodes, body parts were sent flying to the dark sky. Watching young men die. Lose limps. Lose parts of their minds as they burnt in fire.

His eyes flickered on the dirty ashes, raining down like anti-snow. As the sirens become noticeable, wailing around the bypass.

He saw her face in the flames, remembering her beauty. It always seemed so incorruptible, but now that she was engulfed in flames, it was proven to him that nothing lasted forever. Not his once handsome face that she fell in love with, not her perfect shape which now had turned to the blackened and shrunk figure half of her size.

All gone.

"The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules. "

As the sirens got near, he backed away, slowly disappearing in the shadows. It was the end of a life and beginning of another. And he planned on celebrating his rebirth.

* * *

You know the thing about chaos? It's. Fair.

I'm an agent of chaos. I was chosen to show…ah… people, that they're…just… trying _too_ hard to keep their _little_ worlds in order, when they can just let go. Let the things follow their natural _state_. All these governments and systems… they've put. All these…ah so-called _moralities._ All the _ruuules_ , they have. They're not gonna save'em. These people are just as good as the world _allows_ them to be.

No… no… I'm not a monster; I'm just ahead of a curve.

And that's why I'm gonna expose their true faces behind the _bea-utiful_ masks they put on _eeevery_ day. I'm gonna show this city how it is to see the world the way it _really_ is.

 _So Here. We. Go..._

 ** _The End_**

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _Yes! that was a wrap on this story. I'm gonna thank my fellow Joker lover Stephany **(**_ **itnevertakestoolong)** _for all her supports, she actually gave me courage to end this story. Hope more of you actually read this and tell me what you think/feel about it._

 _Also I want to thank_ **Addison Drexler.** _go check out his/her joker fanfic (Scars) which is another amazing Joker's origin fanfic that I've enjoyed._

 _Also check out my buddy, Stephany's story called **' a little push'** which is totally awesome! You're gonna enjoy it I promise!_

 _Okay! hope to see you all soon but for now_

 _Cheers,_

 _Bella_


End file.
